My house is a light, tannish beige.
From my seat on our back deck I can still hear the constant rush of traffic all around me. Busy Hartman Avenue is probably a little closer to the house than Meg or I would have wanted – but we still love this house. We love this home.
I stop my writing to occasionally tell my son Jonah to stop climbing on things. A chair… the railing. He waters his mom’s herbs with an orange watering can filled with recent rain water. He accidentally kicks it over. "Not again!" he exclaims. He’ll be three before this month is over.
Autumn feels like it’s coming early to Omaha from our vantage point in mid August. I had to go put a sweater on before I left the house this morning. It was six-thirty and I swear it was forty degrees. Of course, it was probably sixty-five – but any excuse to wear a cardigan, I suppose. Autumn’s my favorite season. The cool smell in the air reminds me of bonfires, and friends, and hot chocolate, and singing, and scarves. I guess I didn’t know what I was missing during my childhood in Hawaii. Of course I miss the clear water, the green mountains, the reef sharks and the sea turtles too.
But I'll never move away from here, I think.
Megan and I met at the Collen’s labor day party back in two-thousand-and-six – the same week I moved to Omaha. She was fourteen. I was nineteen. I was madly in love – just not with her. It would be three more years, and much heartache later – before I’d realize that Megan was the one. I can’t imagine it any other way now.
Since Isaiah was born a couple months ago – I’ve set up an alternate design studio in our house, and have been working half days from home. My Benson studio remains my base of operations for Fruitful, however. I love my clients. I love my work. But I definitely love my family more.
Meg has now brought Isaiah outside. He’s swinging back and forth in that little, electric swing that he usually hates. But now he’s outdoors – he always loves the outdoors.
My mind gets momentarily distracted by thoughts of work… church items… thoughts of music. (I’m trying to start a band, you know.) I look at Isaiah in the swing – staring up at the giant, unknown world before him. For a moment I wish I could be just like him. Nothing to do, nowhere to go… no one to please. Well – no one to please but himself, I suppose. I guess he’s pretty, downright selfish if you think about it.
I guess I don’t really want to be like Isaiah after all.
